


Red

by WalkTheStarsWithMe



Series: Color Spectrum [3]
Category: Mr. Robot (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Asphyxiation, Blood, Depression, Dissociation, M/M, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 02:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7995487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WalkTheStarsWithMe/pseuds/WalkTheStarsWithMe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite his daily exhaustion, Elliot still manages to dream of Tyrell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

**Author's Note:**

> i gotta do more of these color spectrum thingies, bruh. it really helps when i'm warming up to write a shitload of stuff!! ^u^
> 
> all the warnings you need're in the tags, but most of it's pretty lowkey. it's also--to quote Darlene--"pretty melodramatic." interpret it whatever way you want. enjoy!! ;)

You’d think I wouldn’t dream. That my mind would be exhausted every night, not just from surviving on a daily basis, but also having to bear the weight of not one, but two people. You’d think I wouldn’t have the energy to dream. Sleep eludes me enough already, like an unsaved command I can only remember a few lines of code for. Sometimes I have to force myself to shut down for the sake of avoiding a fatal crash in the long run.

It doesn’t help that I’m being hunted for something I can’t even remember doing. It makes my mind race like it’s on a hamster wheel. Then again, that’s nothing new. I can’t remember the time I didn’t feel like I was running in place. Like in a dream where you’re moving with all your might, yet still going nowhere.

I wonder if _he_ dreams. And what of. And I wonder if you do as well. Either way, tonight I dream.

I dream of Tyrell Wellick.

He’s wearing the gloves he wore last time I saw him. The gloves he wore while he strangled a woman to death.

_Bonsoir, Elliot._

A million thoughts pop up at once, every one of them begging me to run. A flare of red fills the space behind my eyes, as if the sight of Tyrell isn’t enough of a signal of danger.

I want my brain to stop, to shut up so my mind can work, but how can you silence that which allows you to wish for its demise? It’s strange how that works. That the thing that powers you can also not want to.

I know I’m dead sleep. I swear I am. I’m dreaming. I’m not really here. But even then I feel my chest and throat tighten, my mouth go dry, because Tyrell closes the space between us fast, way too fast. I call for help, but there’s nobody else in this void I’ve fallen into, nobody else but me, and Tyrell, and the hands on my throat, squeezing tightly. I choke out my pleas, my terror, spit it in his face so that he can’t miss it. Tyrell’s eyes may be swollen and shot through with spidery red lines, but they can’t miss it. My body’s growing heavy, my limbs are going numb, and all I can stare at are Tyrell’s bloodshot eyes.

Maybe they do miss it.  The panic tangling my movements. The desperation bleeding from my pores.

Then he speaks, and his voice’s so low that my ringing ears barely catch a snow-soft _Please._

My mouth falls open. Like I’m going to protest. I should be the one saying this. Not him. I’m the one running out of breath, the one losing their mind—

The one who’s being kissed, sweetly, as he lets go.

When I back away, heat flushes through my body, making me itch under my clothes. In contrast, my throat’s cold from Tyrell’s hands leaving it.

And maybe it’s the morphine, the adrenaline, or just plain bad ideas, but I almost want them wrapped around my neck again. Because that’s what I do: I make bad decisions. I wish for terrible things to happen to me, so then my limping heart, my trembling brain will stop.

I want them to stop. I want _everything_ to stop.

That’s when I realize Tyrell’s eyes are so red because he’s been crying. I know what it looks like when your eyes have been waterlogged with tears, because I have a mirror in my bathroom.

(It's broken now. You know why.)

But I also know that this isn’t the real Tyrell. I was with him when he disappeared, even though I can’t remember. Even so, I know I played a part in it, so I ask this Tyrell where the real Tyrell is, because maybe he knows.

Tyrell approaches like a beaten dog, head low, eyes down. He reaches for me again, his hands settling on the sides of my neck again, and that makes me want to hunker down until the end of the world and everything after passes over me.

 _Don’t you remember, Elliot?_ he whispers.

I ask again, this time louder. He just kisses me, this time with more force, and his thumbs press into my throat again, but only hard enough to make me dizzy. His lips are red when he pulls back, red like the blood vessels in his eyes. _Don’t you remember?_ he says again, his shaky voice rising.

My vision blazes. I shout at him. He’s not the real Tyrell. He’s a piece of my mind given life by my REM-locked brain, he has no right to withhold information and torment me like this.

But that brings up another question: Is he truly another part of me? Yet another puppetmaster animating my dysfunctional body? The idea disturbs me on so many levels. Even then, I don’t resist when Tyrell’s breath ghosts over my ear as he murmurs, _Adieu, Elliot._

My eyes burn with frustration and I shove him away. This time I don’t ask—I demand where he is. I need to know if he’s still alive. I need to. Even if the information serves no purpose other than to give me some sort of closure. Peace of mind. But when he draws away I draw away, and I see blood on my hand. Tyrell’s blood. I look at his face and there’s red spilling from his lips, trickling down his chin and his neck.

I yell Tyrell’s name. He convulses and sinks to his knees. I drop down as well. This time I’m holding his neck, forcing him to keep looking me in the eye. His mouth’s streaming blood as I shake him and say his name over and over. Words gurgle from his throat.

_Elliot, I—I’m—I’m—_

He slumps against me before he can finish.

My hands come around his body. I feel a hole where a bullet’s entered it.

The bullet I must’ve put in him.

 

 

I wake up.

My eyes are red.

**Author's Note:**

> feedback is always welcome!! ^u^


End file.
